


When Flori Met Ralfi

by TheAstronomyMod



Category: Kraftwerk (Band), Krautrock (music)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Summer School, bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/TheAstronomyMod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1968, Ralf Hütter and Florian Schneider-Esleben were just two young kids, barely out of their teens, meeting for the first time at a summer course in improvisation at the Akademie Remscheid.</p><p>All great partnerships have to start somewhere, but this one started with two shy outsiders who found one another, and fell in love through music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enrolment

Ralf Hütter's summer course in improvisation at the Akademie Remscheid had, like everything else to do with his father, been a compromise. If it had been entirely up to Ralf, which his life up until that point very seldom was, he would have studied Improvisation, preferably at the Robert Schumann Hochschule, for the entire course of his university education. But Herr Doktor Hütter, of course, had grander plans for his young son. Herr Doktor Hütter himself, the last in a long line of wealthy traders who had got fat on the textile industry of Krefeld, the self-styled "Velvet and Silk City", had in his own youth finally made the leap from the Mercantile class to the Professional class, and wished his scion to maintain the same status, perhaps even improve upon it.

Ideally, Herr Doktor Hütter would have liked his son, who had only reached his Majority the previous August, to become a surgeon. Failing that; a lawyer, an engineer, perhaps even a high-level manager or executive officer in one of the powerhouse manufacturing corporations fuelling the post-war West German Economic Miracle. Something with status, a substantial salary, and a good future.

But in 1963, at the tender age of 16, the unthinkable had happened. Young Hütter, still Ralfi to his family then, had fallen in love with an unfathomable racket from across the Atlantic Ocean, and announced his intention to become a musician.

A musician! It was unthinkable! There had never been the slightest sign of musical talent in the Hütter family for over 400 years. (Must have come from his mother's side of the family, who were always suspected of being a bit, well... _Belgian_.) To be fair, both of the Hütter progeny had suffered through years of twice-weekly music lessons, as a severe middle-aged woman had been brought in from Düsseldorf twice a week to administer the standard dollops of middle class accomplishment on the family pianoforte. But there had never been the slightest glimmer of actual interest in the Performing Arts until those five American mop-tops had appeared on German television, grown men with schoolboy haircuts singing about a mysterious and arcane Californian practice called _Surfin_ '.

The older Hütters had been alarmed, but Ralfi had been captivated, purchasing the single at a record shop in downtown Düsseldorf, and playing it over and over, trying to comprehend the magic of how those blended voices and pounding drums made his heart race so fast. Ralfi had always been an impressionable lad, easily swayed by fashions he saw on television and in the movies. But now he seemed determined to make himself over in the image of these American musicians, allowing his hair to grow long, down the tips of his ears, and actually practising, for hours, at the piano he had formerly only tolerated.

At first, his parents were indulgent. Young Ralfi had always had his strange manias for subjects, which came out of nowhere, and often vanished just as quickly. In his early years, it had been languages that were the focus of his passions. At the age of 9, he had simply absorbed the entire French language from a tourist's phrasebook and a French-German dictionary, surprising the delivery boy by placing the family's entire grocery order in flawless, though heavily Rhineland accented French. Next, he devoured the English language whole from a series of dirty novels obtained through deception from an older boy at school. 

Having found this 'too easy', he demanded that his high school provide him with Russian lessons, scrawling Cyrillic letters across all of his coursework until his wish was granted. Fortunately, the Hütter money sustained the little polyglot Ralfi at the local Waldorf School, which encouraged, rather than dissuaded these odd obsessions, channelling them into an unconventional but excellent education. Because, for all his oddities, everyone agreed that young Ralfi was exceptionally bright, soon proving himself equally as adept at mathematics as he was at Russian verb endings.

But Music! No, it was not to be borne, and Herr Doktor Hütter put his foot down and forbade it. Engineering, suggested Herr Doktor Hütter. Engineering or Medicine. Painting, countered Ralfi, which seemed to his parents to be even more disreputable than Music! All those naked models. Oh no. Business, insisted Hütter Senior. Journalism and Media Studies, countered Hütter Junior. This dance went on for most of the last two years of his schooling, right up until he breezed his way through the Arbitur, an exhaustive test he declared to be only 'mildly strenuous' intellectually.

And then, at the final moment, when father and son had been at loggerheads for nearly two years, as the lad's 18th birthday approached, at last, a compromise appeared. Ralfi had seen, in the Düsseldorf newspaper, a notice announcing that the insurance company ARAG had commenced work on a new headquarters. The artist's conception showed a terraced 'Step-House' much like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, which resembled not architecture so much as a dynamic modern sculpture. An Architect, whistled young Ralfi, gazing at the illustration of the building. Wouldn't it be a splendid thing, to be an architect, and design such creations. Frau Hütter breathed a great sigh of relief, and brokered peace between the two men in her life. Ralfi would study Architecture, which would satisfy Hütter Senior's desire for a professional son, as well as Hütter Junior's desire for a creative career.

Music would remain a hobby - as Ralfi had already begun to play first piano, and then organ for local covers bands to earn a bit of spare cash - and his studies in the arts would be indulged during the summer holidays, while on breaks from his architectural training.

And so, in the summer of 1968, young Ralfi Hütter, a solid, assiduous 21 year old, packed up his prized Farfisa organ (a birthday gift, obtained under duress from his parents) into his VW Beetle (a practical purchase his father would far preferred to have given him, though he bought it himself with money he had earned in his teenage covers band) and drove out to the pleasant rolling foothills of Remscheid for the month-long course in 'Introducing Microtonal Indian Modalities To Free Jazz Improvisation.' Or, as Ralf hoped it would be, a course in making a terrible atonal racket that would intensely annoy his father, and somehow getting away with it.

Although Ralf had arrived fifteen minutes early (Ralf was almost excessively punctual, a good German fault) there was already a queue for the check-in table, which had been set up outside, to take advantage of the particularly clement weather. Chaffing with impatience, Ralf joined the queue and looked over the other students, who, much to his disappointment, turned out to be almost entirely male. Away from the watchful eye of his parents, he had been hoping for romantic or even erotic intrigues. The other young people were an even mixture of hippies and beatniks. Hippies wore colourful clothes, favoured wire-rimmed glasses, and allowed their hair to grow to shoulder length or longer, with wild, straggly beards. Beatniks wore plain clothes, mostly black, (sometimes natural beige or brown), they had horn-rimmed glasses, and if they could produce facial hair, they wore it neatly trimmed into goatees. Hippies liked rock; Beatniks liked jazz. All of them loathed The Establishment.

Ralf belonged to neither tribe. He was beardless, for a start, as despite his best efforts over the past two years, he had yet to produce the slightest evidence of facial hair. Although he wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and his clothes were mostly basic black, and even more basic white, he did so more to avoid the excessiveness of bright colours and hippie hairstyles, than of any affinity to the beatnik movement. For if Ralf was excessive in anything in appearance, it was an excess of averageness. He was neither short nor tall, at precisely 174 and a half centimetres tall (the missing half annoyed him, as he would have preferred the neatness of being 175 cm tall, and official documents had an annoying tendency to round down) though he often tried to gain an extra centimetre or two by wearing Cuban-heeled Beatle boots. Ralf's hair was neither light brown nor dark blond, neither curly nor straight but just sort of wavy, and neither long nor short, just floating round his face in vague wisps that he hoped reminded people of Jim Morrison of the Doors, who were at that point quite his favourite group.

He was not ugly, not by a long shot, but neither was he remarkably handsome, either. There were the glasses, for a start, which hid the startlingly deep blue eyes that his few gymnasium girlfriends had said were his best feature. He had a long, square, serious face, with a heavy forehead that produced the impression that he was scowling, even when he was in good spirits. And Ralfi had, as a boy, been distinctly chubby, a bookish, inactive child with a greater fondness for libraries than playing fields or the outdoors. Though he had left most of his baby fat in his teens, after his brief growth spurt, he still carried himself as if he were chubby, as if he found his own body an embarrassment.

As Ralf drew closer to the head of the queue, he became aware that a tall, thin young man was circling the line, and the table, and the neat orderly row of students, weaving in and out of the crowd in a way that made him distinctly uneasy. It wasn't just the casual insouciance with which the willowy young man wafted about, completely ignoring the carefully constructed enrollment process. It wasn't just the fact that he had kicked off his heavy leather sandals and was strolling about barefoot, across lawns and through flower-beds to reach the occasional tree he would attempt to climb before slipping inelegantly back to the ground. It was the fact that this annoying young man was playing the whole time upon a child's toy, a penny-whistle flute, and its odd whoops and unmusical burbles kept distracting him from his own thoughts.

<<Next!>> called a Registrar, and at last Ralf was at the head of the queue. It always made him nervous, being right at the front of a queue, afraid of jumping the gun, and yet afraid of somehow giving up his pole position. And that bloody Piper had given up tree-climbing and was circling round the ever-lengthening queue again, improvising on the pennywhistle to a tune that Ralf knew he recognised, yet could not quite put his finger on. It was infuriating, as he seemed to know exactly how it should go, and yet he could not put a name to it. He started humming, filling in the notes that the piper was dancing around, racking his brain for the author. Was it Coltrane? Sun-Ra perhaps? He was doing a groovy Sun-Ra version of the tune, but he had the nagging feeling that it was a cover of another song.

<<Next!>> called another Registrar, but Ralf was so absorbed in trying to identify the tune that he didn't notice, especially as the Piper was circling closer and closer, as if drawn by the fact that Ralf was humming along. <<Next!>> repeated the registrar, and in the half a minute it took for Ralf to realise that he was expected to move forward, the bloody Piper shot ahead, took his place, and tossed his driver's licence onto the table as proof of ID.

<<Hey! Look, you! You can't just...>> sputtered Ralf, but the Piper turned around, his face splitting open in a grin that was almost malevolent in its width, and raised the pennywhistle to his lips.

<<Blay! Blup bloo! Blooo parp blup>> went the pennywhistle in an almost uncanny imitation of the cadences of Ralf's annoyance.

<<Stop it!>> demanded Ralf.

<<Blop blip>> went the pennywhistle, chirping like an annoyed robin.

Ralf was about to get really cross, when the second Registrar at the table raised her head and called <<Next!>> Not wanting to lose his turn again, Ralf shot forward and claimed his place, thrusting his own driver's licence towards the woman. He told her his special requirements - vegetarian food, please; and if it was possible, he would like a ground floor dormitory room, as his instrument was quite heavy to carry - and received his enrolment papers and the keys to his dorm room. 

Attached to the enrolment certification was a small bundle of papers which seemed to be all about the philosophy of the school, the philosophy of the course instructor, and of course a brief introduction to Indian music, aesthetics and religion. Ralf stowed them away in his pack to read later, then did his best to carry both his suitcase (small, practical, light) and his organ (oversized, heavy, and impractical, though not quite as impractical as the Hammond organ he had spent several years dragging to gigs) to his room in as few trips as possible. Of course he planned it badly and had to go back for a third trip to fetch the small electrical amplifier without which the organ produced no sound.

When he was finally done, he was so warm from the unexpected exercise that he thrust open the window. But for a moment, he just stood there, blinking. Did his eyes deceive him, or was it _snowing_? In July. No, that was impossible. He shook his head, and when the second flurry of small white flakes began, he stuck his hand out to catch one. It was only paper confetti. But why on earth was someone chucking confetti out of a second story window? Ralf stuck his entire head and shoulders out the window to look up, only to receive another, larger clump of shredded paper across his spectacles.

<<Stop this!>> he ordered into the paper snowstorm. But as he wiped away the paper from his glasses, he realised that it was the school's philosophy, ripped up into tiny little pieces.

The snow flurry stopped, but an equally annoying sound issued from above in its place. The pennywhistle flute, going <<Blop blip>> with exactly the same irritated tone that Ralf felt.

<<Oh god it's you>> sighed Ralf, and shook his head, scattering confetti out of his hair. 

Above him, the pennywhistle echoed his words. 

<<Look, I'm not playing your games>> he announced crossly, then withdrew his head. The pennywhistle chattered crossly in reply, but Ralf stepped away from the window, refusing to get involved with this madman with the flute. For a few minutes, there was silence, and Ralf smiled smugly, feeling like he had won. But the moment that he turned his back on the window, there was a soft whoosh, and something sharp flew in the window, bounced off the back of his shoulders and flopped onto the floor.

It didn't actually hurt, but Ralf winced and let out a little yelp from pure surprise, then scrambled across the floor to locate what turned out to be a fairly well-designed paper airplane. It was clearly another sheet torn from the school's philosophy pamphlet, but someone had scribbled all across it in blue ink. But when Ralf unfolded it, he realised that the blue scribbling depicted a rather serious looking young man with a cross scowl, and confetti dusted across his glasses and hair. Was that supposed to be him? He would have been angry, except it was rather a good likeness, albeit not particularly flattering. Whoever had done it had some not-inconsiderable talent.

So Ralf marched back to the window and stuck his head and shoulders all the way out again, peering up to try to see the window above. He could see that there was a young man perched up there, silhouetted against the brightness of the room. So, putting his fingers between his lips, he let out a sharp whistle of his own, to attract the lad's attention. <<Why are you defacing school property like this?>> he demanded, before adding. <<And don't you dare answer with that pennywhistle of yours!>>

The boy upstairs stuck his head out the window, leaning almost perilously far forwards as he studied Ralf in return, before that enormous grin spread slowly across his strange, slightly mismatched features. <<Because it's bullshiiiiiiiiiit>> he replied, in a quiet voice that surprised Ralf with its softness, despite the laconic elongation of the vowels. Another ridiculous grin, a gentle nod, and then the head disappeared again.

Ralf almost prickled with irritation. After twelve years of Waldorf Schooling, he had, he believed, picked up a very finely tuned radar for _bullshit_. And he was not going to be schooled on specious hogwash by a boy who seemed to communicate almost entirely by _pennywhistle_.

But still, he rather liked the portrait, so he stuck it up over the mirror, then proceeded to unpack. His few clothes, he filed logically into the chest of drawers by colour and fabric weight, his books he arranged about the shelves in alphabetical order by subject, then he pinned up some other inspirational photos - Jim Morrison, a television actress he had a mild crush on, an architectural sketch he had done of the Düsseldorf Step-House - around the edges of the mirror. That was better. Now to set up the organ, and the cramped dorm room would be just like home.


	2. Hell Is Other Students

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night of summer school, Ralf tries, and fails, to make friends with the other students. But he can a least always find solace in his music.

That evening, there were no classes, but there was a "social mingle" for the students in the cafeteria. To be honest, Ralf dreaded any sort of social occasion, but especially one with strangers; strangers with whom he would have to work for the next few weeks. Although he desperately wanted to make a good impression, to have his fellow pupils like and respect him, anxiety invariably gripped him and and trapped his tongue like a vice. Ralf had never been particularly talkative. Even among the other Waldorf School students, whom he had known for nearly a dozen years, he had a reputation for shyness and reticence. But with strangers, it was almost unbearable. He never seemed to know the right thing to say, and even when he was sure of speaking, he never seemed to get the volume of his voice right. He was aware that his voice, naturally, was soft to the point of inaudible, but if he raised it to make himself heard, it always seemed to come out strident, demanding. Which put people off, and the fear of it only made him more afraid to speak.

He forced himself to wait in his room, going against his natural punctuality, in order to delay the inevitable painful moment. Cafeterias of any kind were always a trial. If he got there early, and sat at an empty table, he often found himself sitting alone for the whole meal. It wasn't something he actively aimed for; he just found that he seemed to emanate a natural _fuck off_ vibe when by himself. Not that arriving late and forcing himself into someone else's table was much easier. At high school, he had had a small circle of swots and weirdoes and maths geeks who tolerated his presence, and at the Düsseldorf School of Engineering and Architecture, the 6 architecture students in his year always sat together, as a bulwark against the unbelievably dreadful engineering students.

But at Remscheid, he had no such gang. The first evening of a short course was crucial, and he was painfully aware of the need to get in with a good group, as clumps tended to stick together over such a short term. The cafeteria was already a minefield, as the students were carefully sorting themselves out by youth tribe, Hippies on one side, Beatniks on the other. Ralf looked about, scouting for women, but the few women there were all seemed to be hippies, sitting in a group together. Taking a deep breath, Ralf got some food, purchased a bottle of beer from the bucket of ice (he seldom drank, as he disliked the taste, but perhaps it would take the edge off his nerves) and headed over to the table with the girls.

<<Good evening>> he said softly, putting his plate down at the far end, and the girls smiled and nodded in response to his greeting. OK, this might not be so bad. It might actually be alright.

And then two more men sat down, directly between him and the women. Ralf's heart sank. One of them was tall and good-looking, his hair permed into Jimi Hendrix spirals, wearing a patchwork paisley shirt and a pair of velvet bell-bottoms. The other was shorter, but even more implausibly handsome, with long blond hair, perfect teeth and a pair of leather jeans so tight that Ralf felt his naturally quite high tenor rise another octave just to look at them. Almost immediately, these Hippie Boy-Kings launched into the sort of easy-natured banter that he would never master in a million years, tossing jokes light-heartedly back and forth between the two of them in a way that effortlessly attracted the girls' attention.

The trick, one that Ralf would never get the hang of, worked. The girls were intrigued, even attracted, and started to ask the Hippie Boy-Kings questions. Names were exchanged, though Ralf didn't quite catch them, as the Boy-Kings were turned away from him. Then they started comparing their instruments. One of the Boy-Kings played guitar, the other drums. Piano - Clarinet - Violin supplied the women.

Ralf decided it was now or never to join the conversation, and cleared his throat. <<I play the organ>> he ventured, in a voice that felt a bit unnaturally loud. That got the girls' attention, as in 1968, organ was still an undeniably _cool_ instrument to play - much cooler than violin or clarinet. One of the women - the piano-playing woman, he thought - actually looked quite impressed, and opened her mouth like she was about to ask him something, but the Boy-King in leather trousers (the drummer, of course - Christ, how Ralf hated drummers. Always such show-offs!) interrupted.

<<Yeah, I'm sure you _play_ with your own organ all the time, but what _musical_ instrument? >> said Leather Trousers, and Hendrix Perm exploded into raucous laughter, followed by titters and giggles from the girls.

Ralf felt his face flushing, even as he wanted to sink through the floor. If he had been a Boy-King himself, he would have made an even ruder joke back, slapped down the idiot with a piquant retort, and got the girls on his side. But he had no come-back, and just looked down at his food, knowing that he was going to spend the rest of the dinner being the butt of the Boy-Kings' jokes, since he clearly could not defend himself. It wasn't even his joke, was the worst part. It was a joke from a Ray Manzarek interview, but Ralf knew better than to point that out.

He tried to keep a low profile until he finished his meal. Honestly, he tried his best. But the Boy-Kings had moved on from discussing instruments to discussing groups and their various merits. Perm-Boy, predictably, was insisting on the merits of Jimi Hendrix, while Leather Trousers was talking about The Doors, who the clarinet player, the prettiest of the girls, had mentioned were her favourite. Which was fine, as Ralf could talk about The Doors for Germany. The problem was, Leather Trousers didn't actually know what he was talking about. All of his supposed 'facts' were just ever so slightly wrong, in ways that seriously irritated Ralf's slightly pedantic desire for accuracy.

For a start, he made an aside repeating the old trope that The Doors had no bass player. But then he went on to praise Ray Manzarek's work on the records, playing all of their basslines on a Fender Rhodes with his left hand. 

Not entirely correct, Ralf wanted to argue. True Doors fans knew that their record company had drafted in an uncredited session player to duplicate Manzarek's basslines with a Fender Jazz Bass. Manzarek was good, but he wasn't _that_ good, that he could make such a lifelike string tone with a Fender Rhodes. (Trust me, Ralf had tried, before he had read that it was not actually what had made that sound, and had gone out and bought a Fender Bass.) But Ralf knew that was real pedantic fanboy trivia, so he sensibly kept his mouth shut.

Then he started going on about Jim Morrison's girlfriend, Paulina. _Pamela_ , muttered Ralf under his breath. Jim Morrison's pretty, red-headed girlfriend was called Pamela. That was just stupid and he could see Piano roll her eyes at it. But when Leather Trousers started talking about The Doors' first single, _Light My Fire_ , the pedantic fanboy in Ralf could stand no more.

<< _Light My Fire_ was not the first Doors single >> mumbled Ralf, without even realising at first that he was actually speaking aloud. << _Break On Through_ was their first single. >>

<<Excuse me?>> said Leather Trousers, flipping his long blond hair back over one shoulder as he turned to Ralf.

Ralf froze. Oh christ why had he spoken at all. He weighed in his mind, the rudeness of just pretending he had not said anything, and muttering _nothing_ in the same quiet tone, versus the rudeness of complying with the request to repeat himself. The girls were looking at him curiously, like they hadn't actually heard, so he decided that it had been a simple request to repeat himself a little louder. He was painfully aware of how soft his voice was, especially when he was nervous.

He cleared his throat, then said it a little louder. << _Break On Through_ was the first Doors single. Not _Light My Fire_. _Light My Fire_ was the second single, though it was, ironically, their breakthrough. >>

<<I heard you the first time, twerp>> said Leather Trousers, raising his voice and his eyebrows. 

Oh shit, thought Ralf. Wrong choice.

<<I meant, _excuse me_ , as in, excuse me, you little square, are you genuinely trying to pretend that you know more about American psychedelic rock than I do?>>

Ralf frowned, setting his jaw as he looked down at the floor. <<No>> he insisted, with that pedantic little twitch that just wouldn't leave things alone. <<I just know, for a fact, that _Break On Through_ was the first Doors single. >>

<<No it wasn't>> insisted the other pretty girl - the Violin Player - batting her eyelashes at Leather Trousers. <<It was _Light My Fire_. >>

<<Hmmm>> said Piano, who was a little less cute, and wore little round John Lennon glasses. <<I could have sworn it was _Break_... >>

<<It was _Light My Fire_! >> insisted Hendrix Perm, and Ralf felt his heart sink, because oh god, he had done it again. Why couldn't he just leave well alone, and keep his big mouth shut? These girls he had been so desperate to make friends with, and the cool musicians he should have been trying to impress, now they all thought he was a complete fucking _dussel_. He was right; he knew it was right. That should have been enough, but it never was. No one ever liked a clever clogs. And hey, if he was supposed to be so clever, why couldn't he ever seem to get the meaning of these tricky conversations right for a change? 

Pushing his beer away, as he seemed to have lost his taste for it, Ralf shovelled food into his mouth mechanically and felt the black wave of self-loathing rising within him. His very first conversation, the one that would set the tone for the rest of the summer, and it had gone completely wrong. The whole improvisational course, which he had been looking forward to all year, suddenly stretched before him like an ordeal. How could he have blown it so badly already?

Ralf wolfed down his meal, desert and all, in just under two and a half minutes, then fled the cafeteria, back to the safety of his room. In music, at least, he could find a respite.

When he sat down at the organ, the entire world seemed to vanish, and all of his problems with it. Cracking his knuckles to loosen his fingers, he started a few warm-up exercises, concentrating with a single-minded ferocity that blotted out any other intruding thoughts. He moved on to a couple of pieces from the Well-Tempered Clavier, their very familiarity calming him, reminding him that though the messy world of human interactions remained impenetrable and strange, in music there was always order and clarity and sense. And then he started to extemporise around the familiar Bach pieces, improvising playfully until the music seemed to rise like ocean froth beneath his fingers, adding some trills on the melody, augmenting the bassline in accompaniment, until it was no longer Bach, but some new Ralfi Special.

For that was the other thing that happened when he played. Other people seemed to forget his excessive averageness, and became enraptured, genuinely captivated by his skill. The first time young Ralfi had turned up for an audition in a pop band, the other lads had laughed at him. He was about four years younger than the rest of them for a start, too young for a drivers licence, so his mother had waited outside the back room of the pub where they rehearsed in the family car. He knew his clothes were all wrong, and his hair was stupid, but when he sat down at that pub piano, something magical happened. The other boys shut up, stopped their jostling and their joshing and fell into line, picking up their instruments to play along. It was only House Of The Rising Sun by The Animals, an old standard all Beatniks knew. But the way that Ralfi played, improvising upon Alan Price's rollicking organ solo, he transformed it from a blues-based riff into a hymn, a fugue, an entire symphony within the 30 seconds allotted for his solo. His new bandmates - for he had been hired on the spot - treated him with respect after that, though they had still joshed him a little about the dorky glasses and the extra weight he carried about his thighs.

Only chance made Ralf look up from his memories, but as he glanced towards the window, he saw something that shocked him, so he stopped playing. For a moment - just a moment - he had sworn that he had seen a head, a human head, attached to a long, willowy neck, hanging down from the top of his window. Impossible! But by the time he extracted himself from the nest of the organ and its wires, and strode across the room to the window, the head was gone, and as he thrust his own torso out the window to look up, the window upstairs banged shut. 

Well, that was unnerving, he thought to himself, and shut his own window tight, and locked it.


	3. Saint Florian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of class, Ralf makes the acquaintance of the odd piper from upstairs, who is definitely even weirder than he is, and, to his surprise, is quite possibly even more talented.

The course began in earnest the next morning. Classes in the morning, workshops in the afternoon, and then the evening was free - either for socialising, or rehearsal individually or in small groups in the poorly insulated booths in the music building.

Despite his misgivings, Ralf was excited about the class, and positioned himself in the second row, right in the centre. (Really, he would have liked to sit in the very front row, as even with the glasses, his eyesight was not good. But everyone knew only dorks sat in the front, and besides, it increased the likelihood that the instructor would learn his name and call on him.) The classroom filled up around him, though thankfully Leather Trousers and Hendrix Perm sat towards the back.

The instructor arrived, a small Indian man in an ill-fitting suit. He wrote his name on the blackboard - Chandrababü, a name Ralf was glad to have spelled out - then produced an odd, stringed instrument, played with hammers like a dulcimer, and started to demonstrate a strange constricted, almost pentatonic scale. From somewhere in the back of the classroom, a whistle of birdsong seemed to repeat the odd notes, and Ralf felt the back of his neck tighten with anxiety. As the instructor, who ignored the interruption - or perhaps just thought that German birds were naturally pentatonic - got up and went to the blackboard, Ralf turned around and scanned the room, but he could not see the tall, willowy boy with the pennywhistle anywhere.

But now the instructor was talking at speed, without so much as a preliminary, in lilting German heavily accented with a cadence Ralf could not quite place. It was hugely complicated, this Raga system, dozens of different repetitions and permutations to memorise, intricate tones and scales to be used for each separate part, and Ralf struggled to take notes, as the professor went so fast. Yet clearly, at the back of the class, one person was not bothering to take notes, as he could hear, very softly, the pennywhistle imitating the lilting cadences of the Asian man's speech. A wave of soft titters went though the class every time the willowy boy caught him accurately, but the man seemed not to notice, or at least, not to care.

<<Now we go>> said Professor Chandrababü, and clapped his hands. Another Asian man - he had been sitting over by the window, where Ralf hadn't even noticed him -  even smaller and older, in an even more rumpled suit than the professor, stood up and walked, his head very erect, carrying two large wooden drums with great dignity to the front of the class. The pair of them sat. <<Raga Hindol>> announced Chandrababü, and nodded to his friend, who tapped out a bouncing rhythm as he played a short, complicated melody in the pentatonic scale, on his dulcimer. <<Now you go>> he directed and gestured towards the class. Not a one of them moved. Chandrababü sighed, then said <<Again>> to the drummer, and they played the same phrase, much slower. <<Now _you_ go! >> This time, he pointed directly at Ralf, since unfortunately, no one had taken the seat just in front of him.

Ralf frowned, concentrating very hard, trying to remember the throbbing melody. But everyone was looking at him, so he closed his eyes, and started to tap with his pen against the desk, thwacking the paper of his notebook for what he hoped was the rhythm as he tried to whistle the tune. He produced a fairly decent approximation for a melody he had heard precisely twice, and Chandrababü smiled.

<<Pretty good>> he chirped. <<Almost there. Anyone else?>>

In the back of the class, the pennywhistle started up, much louder this time. After a long falling tone like a sigh, the willowy boy breathily piped out the exact melody, to the complex beat the Indian musician had used, without missing a note.

<<Perfect!>> cried Chandrababü. <<Very, very good. Now the next segment.>>

It went on like this for the rest of the morning. The Indian musicians would play, drums and dulcimer together, often at great speed, and the class would struggle to keep up. The only one of them that was the slightest bit good at it was the willowy boy with the birdwhistle, who seemed to pick up the complicated pentatonic melodies as easily as he imitated and mocked the cadences of speech. Ralf was better than most of the class. He picked up the notes more often than not, especially if he could hear them 2 or 3 times first, but it piqued him that he was not the very best in the class. At music lessons in Krefeld, he had always been the best in the class. But to his great satisfaction, Leather Trousers soon proved to be the absolute worst, with Hendrix Perm little better.

 

By the time they broke for lunch, Ralf's head was spinning, but his stomach was rumbling. He walked quickly to the cafeteria and grabbed a sandwich, but was relieved to see that the doors to the lawn were open. It was a nice day, so everyone was eating outside. That, at least, solved the dilemma of the lunch tables, as it was far less noticeable if he ate alone, outside. He sat away from the main gaggle of students, on a low brick wall so he would not mess his trousers with grass stains, and set to concentrating on the reams of notes he had managed to scribble in class, in between bites of sandwich.

And then he heard birdsong behind him. No, it was not birdsong, it was that infernal pennywhistle again, improvising easily around the melodic structure he had been taught as Raga Hindol. Ralf raised his head and looked carefully at the boy. The lad was not actually as tall as he had initially thought, but his extreme thinness made his angular body seem much longer than it was. Despite the warmth of the day, he was wearing a white button-down shirt with a narrow black tie. It looked peculiarly out of place, surrounded by the other students in their youthful finery, but Ralf realised exactly what it was for. In his weird, conservative, _square_ clothes, it was impossible to tell if the young man was a Hippie or a Beatnik or what.

As he stood still, mesmerised by the raga he was playing, Ralf studied the lad. He had a round face, with high cheekbones, a wide mouth with thin lips, and a huge prow of a nose that gave him that distinctly birdlike appearance. His hair was dark brown, and though it was cut very short, almost cropped, it still stuck out from his head at unruly angles. His eyes, though, they were the really striking thing about him, so pale a blue they seemed almost colourless, deep set and slightly too far apart, which gave him a perpetual expression of wonder. Unlike Ralf's perfectly average features, all of the boy's attributes seemed extreme, everything on his face too big, too small, too wide, too narrow, and yet the whole effect was harmonious, and the general impression, when one looked closely, was that of beauty. He was far too striking-looking to be pretty, but the boy was handsome. Very much so.

<<You're staying in the room above me, aren't you>> said Ralf, feeling a little awed.

A rising tone on the pennywhistle, that sounded almost exactly like an  assent.

<<Were you watching me, last night? I thought I saw you at my window.>>

A falling tone that functioned as a strident denial.

The boy was clearly lying, but Ralf did not like playing games, so he tried another tack. <<You're not eating. Are you not hungry?>> A rising tone in reply. <<Would you like the other half of my sandwich?>> Ralf offered, and he must really have liked the boy, if he was prepared to give up food. A falling tone. <<It's a nice sandwich>> insisted Ralf, pushing the paper plate towards his companion. <<Vegetarian - egg salad. No mayo.>>

The willowy boy lowered the flute from his lips, and spoke, so softly it was almost a whisper. <<I don't like bread.>> There was a faint burr to his voice, that Ralf recognised as the remains of a speech impediment. His own mother was a paediatric nurse, who worked often with children with lisps or soft palettes or stutters, so he was quite used to the type.

<<What's wrong with bread? You can pick out just the egg if you like. I don't mind.>>

The willowy boy raised his shoulders and made a strange shrugging motion, a bit like tying himself in a knot, and the fabric of his flimsy shirt caught across his protruding collarbones. <<I don't like the way it feels, in my mouth. It feels weird. Like eating a sponge.>>

<<Well, you can't just not eat for two weeks>> pointed out Ralf, hating the way that his voice took on his father's hectoring tone. The willowy boy lowered his eyes and raised the flute to his lips, letting out a defiant rising tone. _Yes I can_.  <<Well, what do you like to eat?>> asked Ralf, as food was one of his very great pleasures, and it upset him, the thought of this ascetic boy denying himself.

The other boy lowered the flute again and eyed him warily with those odd, silvery eyes. <<Cheesecake.>>

<<OK, we will find you cheesecake, then>> said Ralf with a decisive nod, and climbed to his feet. <<Watch my seat.>>

Inside the cafeteria, Ralf saw that deserts had been put out, so he located two slices of cheesecake, balancing them on paper plates, then helped himself to a large bottle of coca-cola. He needed the caffeine, and desperately, as he was not used to rising so early during the summer. He returned to the lawn to find the tall, willowy boy studiously staring at the patch of wall he had just vacated.

<<The wall has not moved>> said the boy in such a dry, matter of fact tone that Ralf laughed aloud as he handed over the cheesecake and gestured for them both to sit. And all at once, that round, serious face cracked open in such a maniacal grin that Ralf had to wonder if it had been intended as a joke or not. But then the boy opened his huge mouth, and wolfed down his cheesecake so quickly that Ralf realised he had probably not eaten breakfast, and offered the second slice of cheesecake. He must _really_ like the newcomer. They shared the coke, taking alternate swigs from opposite sides of the bottle.

<<Do you have a name?>> asked Ralf, growing more and more curious about his companion. A quick grin and a rising tone on the flute. <<Well, what is it, then?>> Ralf demanded, realising that the other lad, though playful, might just be as pedantic a stickler for detail as he was.

The willowy boy eyed him very carefully, as if evaluating him, then shrugged. <<Florian.>> The way he said it, Floooo-he-aaaahn, elongating the vowels, elided the consonant that Ralf realised he struggled with. R. Florian gargled his Rs as if he could not quite spit them out.

<<That's an unusual name>> said Ralf, who decided he liked it. Florian. There was something pretty and slightly girlish about it that suited the willowy lad.

Florian rolled his silvery eyes, as if this were a common complaint. <<Not in Bavaria, where my mother's family is from.>>

<<I like it!>> protested Ralf. <<It is good to have an unusual name. I'm Ralf. Boring old bread and potatoes, cabbage and dumplings, beer halls and lederhosen _Ralf_. >>

Florian smiled at him sideways, with a little tilt to his eyebrows, as if to say, you cannot seriously expect me to pronounce _that_.  <<I like it. It's good to have a common name.>> For a moment, Ralf wondered if he was being mocked. <<In Bavaria and Austria, at least one son in every family is called Florian. It is supposed to be protection from fire. You know the old saying? St Florian, save my house from fire; burn down my neighbours' house.>>

That was definitely a joke, and Ralf laughed appreciatively. <<But surely it does not work if everyone utilises the same prayer. Everyone can't pray for a neighbour's house to be burned, someone must always be the neighbour. Or else it's a mathematical impossibility.>>

Florian grinned that wide crocodile smile that warped his handsome face into a row of glittering teeth. <<I like mathematical impossibilities. Don't you?>>

Ralf smiled cautiously, as he did not like to show his lower teeth, which were slightly crooked. <<Well, what if you don't have a neighbour. What if you are a loner, what if you live outside the village?>>

Lowering his head, Florian gazed at him very strangely from beneath faint eyebrows that were at least two shades lighter than the dark hair on this head. <<Well. If you are an _einzelgänger_ , this means you are safe. You have no neighbour to wish a fire on you. I think it is better this way, yes?>>

 _Einzelgänger._ Ralf felt his chest warming just above his heart. It was what they had called him at school. Loner. Weirdo. Misfit. It was the first time he had ever heard this represented as a good or desirable way to be. This odd, willowy boy with the flute. He seemed to understand. A friend. Had he actually, in this impossible place, with these awful hippie students, made a friend? Maybe the next few weeks would not be so bad after all.


	4. Raga Hindol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Ralf finds himself completely confused by the lessons in class, Florian helps him to understand, musically.

That afternoon, the professor asked the class to divide out into small groups of three or more, for workshop. Although Ralf and Florian both stood, awkwardly, near each other, in the vague hopes of being chosen together, neither of them quite had the courage to ask the other flat out to be in his group. They drifted closer and closer together as the rest of the students sorted out into clumps, shyly glancing at one another in the hopes that they might work together, until they were both the last unmatched students left. But abruptly, Professor Chandrababü clapped his hands and barked out <<No, no, this is unbalanced. We cannot have all the women in one group. This will not do.>>

And with that, he reached out and seized Ralf by the elbow, propelling him into a group with Clarinet, the extremely pretty girl, and Leather Trousers. Florian, on the other hand, ended up in a group with Piano and a sandy-haired boy who played the double bass. Ralf and Leather Trousers glared at one another, neither of them happy with the arrangement, but there was nothing to be done. They had to make the best of it. Clarinet, at least, had a fairly good ear, and played quite nicely. But Leather Trousers, stuck as he was on a a pair of bongo drums, was making an awful racket. Although Leather Trousers tried to seize control of the small group, Ralf was able to simply out-play him, though Clarinet did not seem able to negotiate a path between them. It was not a successful session, and all three of them were glad to abandon it before their allotted time was up.

Ralf looked around for Florian at dinner, which was a rubbery sort of pasta dish that really did feel like a sponge in his mouth, but the piper was nowhere to be seen. Again, he hung about hopefully during the socialising hour, hoping that his new friend would turn up, but he knew it would be fruitless. Dejected, he headed back to his room and sat down at his organ, his notes in front of him, trying to make the complicated melodies he had scribbled down make sense in his head. He left the window open, but the head did not reappear, though thankfully, neither did the confetti.

No Florian again at breakfast, and though Ralf thought he heard some birdwhistle song while walking across campus, and his head had twitched, it turned out to be only birdsong of the avian kind. God, what a _dussel_ he was to have got his hopes up. That Florian kid was actually really kind of annoying, to be honest; why was he thinking of him so constantly? It was a patently foolish thing to be doing.

Ralf sat, again, in the central seat of the second row, and waited while the classroom filled up around him. And then, at the last minute, just before Professor Chandrababü closed the door, in shot that long, thin boy, his pennywhistle poking out of his suit jacket pocket, looking as dazed as if he had only just got out of bed. He propelled himself right into the seat directly in front of Ralf, with a cautious smile and a nod of the head as greeting. Ralf felt his heart beating suddenly very fast, and he couldn't help but smile back as he felt warmth spreading slowly across his chest and up his neck. Probably just too much coffee at breakfast, but still, he found him attention captivated by the herringbone pattern in the jacket draped across those wide but boney shoulders in front of him.

The professor walked up to Florian and eyed him for a moment, before pointing at the pennywhistle, then extending his hand. Florian looked very guilty as he withdrew it from his pocket, put it to his lips and let out a little whistle that sounded very apologetic and more than a little sorry for itself.

Professor Chandrababü laughed, and said <<Just for a moment. I will give it back, I promise.>>

Florian brightened, and produced the little flute, wiping the mouthpiece on his sleeve before hanging it over. The professor blew in it a couple of times, but he couldn't quite seem to get the trick of the slide that altered the pitch. Florian took it back, and demonstrated, grinning widely as he pulled and pushed the slide to work it, then let out of a little squiggle of sound that seemed to say _you try it now_ , and handed it back. This time, the professor made a better go of it, and let out a sad trombone sound that made the entire class laugh. Florian shimmied his shoulders and gave a little clap.

The professor played one more little tune, then handed it back. <<What a lot of fun! I like it a lot. But my friend...>> Here, he bent down to catch Florian's eye as he handed it back. <<How about you let someone else have a go occasionally?>>

Florian wiggled in his seat, then piped his rising tone of assent. As the teacher went back to the front of the class, Florian turned around and caught Ralf's eye for only a moment, grinning widely and raising his eyebrows. It was quite clear that he had already charmed the professor, like Florian seemed to charm everyone, but that one little grin lifted Ralf's spirits like a balloon released from its string and tugging its way towards the heavens.

The class went over the Raga that Ralf thought they had learned the previous day, but today it seemed all different, the notes all rearranged, the same pitches, but in a completely different order, and Ralf had to erase all the pencil marked notation in his notebook and start over again. Would he never catch up? But in front of him, Florian was already piping the new arrangement like a pro, as he and the two Indian musicians were enjoying a playful little trio, leaving the class in the dust. So much for letting other people have a turn. Florian's talent was just so overwhelmingly appealing that it would not be denied.

Again, Florian joined him for on the wall to eat their lunches. Today, it was cheese sandwiches, which Florian pried apart with his long, elegant fingers, and gobbled up all the cheese, while leaving the heavy German bread and the wilted salad leaves on the side of his plate. The parsley garnish, though, that, he consented to eat, before taking both his and Ralf's plates back into the cafeteria in search of cheesecake. When this was finished, Florian lay down on his back in the grass, basking in the sun as he raised his pennywhistle to his lips to run through the Raga again.

<<I don't understand>> said Ralf, though they had eaten mostly in silence up until this point. He didn't mind; in fact it pleased him, that Florian seemed contented with silence, when Ralf was engrossed in his own thoughts. <<It's completely different than it was yesterday.>>

The descending tone on the pennywhistle indicated disagreement.

<<Yes it is>> insisted Ralf, trying to stop the note of petulance from creeping into his voice, as he knew this drove away new friends before he could seal the friendship, but it was bothering him deeply. <<Yesterday, the improvisation circled around this melody...>> Pursing his lips, he whistled the five notes in the short phrase that had prompted the improvisation the previous morning. <<And today it's more like...>> He whistled a completely different melody from the same pentatonic cluster of notes.

The pennywhistle ascended in agreement.

<<I don't understand>> confessed Ralf, though it pained him to admit his ignorance.

A little burbling noise from the pipe, like laughter, and then Florian started to cycle through the notes, improvising little melodies, and sub-melodies off each note of the tune. He played beautifully, his thin fingers flying back and forth at speed, bobbing his head back and forth as he got caught up in the music. Ralf moved off the wall, and sat down next to him on the grass, crossing his legs tightly as he gazed down at his friend, trying to work out the underlying tune.

And finally Florian concluded, with a little flourish that seemed to ask _do you see_?

Ralf shook his head sadly, feeling like an idiot. It was not a sensation that he experienced often, and it was not one he liked particularly well. <<I still don't hear the underlying tune.>>

<<There isn't one>> said Florian abruptly. <<That's not how Ragas work. They're completely improvised. You don't get sheet music, or a melody, or anything like that. You get a set of notes, of combinations that are allowed, and then a set of notes or combinations that are forbidden. And then it's like a game, to combine them - this one works on six-note phrases to a polyrhythmic beat - to create the mood and the feeling of the piece, rather than any specific tune or melody. It's a framework, directions on how to make a Raga, rather than a piece itself.>>

It was the longest speech Ralf had ever heard Florian make, and when he spoke at speed, he didn't really notice that the Rs were not quite right. When Florian spoke with confidence, on a subject he was well-acquainted with, the speech impediment seemed to simply slip away.

But as he thought on his friend's words, Ralf realised that he had got the whole thing wrong. All that scribbling down, trying to transcribe the music note for note; it had been wasted. <<But that's completely _backwards_ >> he snorted, as annoyed with himself for failing to grasp something so elementary, as he was with the Ragas for being so nonsensical.

Florian's eyes flashed. <<They're not backwards at all. They are a highly advanced artform, very sophisticated. They have been evolving, been being played for hundreds - and in some cases - over a thousand years. Indian culture has been civilised since our ancestors were clubbing bears in caves. And this music, being so advanced, requires much more improvisational skill and flexibility in the musicians, than Western musicians are perhaps used to.>>

<<More improvisation, but less discipline>> grumbled Ralf, who was a big believer in discipline, thanks to his strict upbringing. <<It seems to me, you could play literally anything and it would fit within the Raga. Five tones, six notes to a phrase... there could be literally hundreds of things you could play and have it be part of the Raga. What's the point in that.>>

<<Fifteen thousand, six hundred and twenty-five>> supplied Florian, without so much as blinking. <But as I said, not all of them are permitted.>>

Ralf stared. <<Did you just calculate that in your head?>>

Florian just grinned and made a rising tone on the pennywhistle. There were to be no more words, as Florian played, and Ralf stared at him, feeling another new emotion rising in his chest. And that emotion was _awe_.


	5. Clapping Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although Ralf is continually hopeless with women, Florian charms his other classmates, who propose that he and Ralf should play in an improvisational group together.

The students split up again for workshops in the afternoon and Ralf found himself paired with Clarinet and Leather Trousers. This time, he had brought his Farfisa down to the rehearsal rooms, rather than rely on the ancient piano. The piano was at least in pretty good tune, but several of the black keys on the lower register stuck, which was annoying when you were trying to play in a pentatonic scale. Clarinet admired the Farfisa, which annoyed Leather Trousers, and Ralf took great pride in showing her the various tones it produced, none of which sounded anything like the instruments they were supposed to represent, but all of which were pleasing.

But this irritated Leather Trousers, who insisted that if Ralf were to play his organ, he should be allowed to play a full drum kit. They got very little work done, and certainly no improvisation. Why had he been stuck with these two, thought Ralf to himself. Although they were both ridiculously good-looking, both of them seemed to take this as an excuse not to do any practising. He longed to make music with the odd-looking young man whose fingers flew so deftly across his flute.

Ralf dragged his Farfisa back to his dorm room in a dark mood. After dinner, he searched for his companion across the campus, as the light in the room upstairs had been dark when he stuck his head out the window. It was a warm, clear evening, with fine weather, not a cloud in the sky, and the setting sun seemed to hang near the horizon for an unfeasibly long time, sending golden-rosy tones across the campus.

It was easy enough to find Florian, as the whooping tones of the pennywhistle were easy enough to trace, even amongst the chattering tweets of the birds' own version of Evensong. But as Ralf came striding up to invite his friend to come to his room and 'jam', he realised that Florian was not alone. Florian, in fact, was lying on the grass, whistle to his lips, surrounded by the three women of their course. All four of them were concentrating very hard, the women clapping and laughing, and Florian frowning and playing the pipe in short breathy bursts. 

As Ralf watched, the clapping sped up, and he felt his chest swelling with another new, and not very pleasant emotion: _jealousy_. Envy, he might have expected, as there was Florian, weird, wordless Florian, with his sticky-outy ears and his scrawny legs, enjoying the attentions of all three of the women on his course, none of whom had said more than six words to him, outside of workshop. But it was not envy. He did not want to be sitting under the tree, laughing and playing with the girls. It was definitely jealousy. Because what he really wanted, was to have Florian to himself.

To be honest, Ralf had never been particularly successful with women, not even as friends, let alone as lovers, so Florian's laughter and easy manner with them seemed mystifying. To be fair, Ralf, with his average schoolboy looks, and his chubby stature, had not been considered one of the more desirable young men at school. And the combination of his awkward shyness and intense braininess had been very off-putting even to his sister's friends, when they came round after school. When he had joined a band, he had expected this situation to improve, but given that he was the youngest, and the newest, with four older, more gregarious bandmates, the pickings had been slim by the time they got to him. Although he had been only 14 years of age when an accommodating older babysitter from Uerdingen had relieved him of the nuisance of his virginity, he had been forced to wait until he was well past 18 for the event to be repeated, by a groupie with a particular fetish for organists.

He didn't really understand it, to be honest. Despite his lack in the looks department, he was loyal, and he was honest, and he had a desperate wish to help and improve the young ladies who occasionally gifted him with their attention. For the young women who had occasionally consented to hang around him as friends never really seemed to know how to make the most of themselves! And when he tried to help, by offering advice for small improvements in deportment, or manners, or little feminine touches such as the application of cosmetics, which he knew would help them win the attentions of young men, he was rewarded not, as he hoped, with gratitude and affection, but with hard stares and the cold shoulder. So if his new friend was going to be one of those men who had an ease and a natural sympathy with the feminine sex, that might make matters slightly awkward.

But Florian had seen him, and it was too late to back out now. <<Oh there you are>> he said in his soft voice, and gestured for Ralf to join them. Irrationally, it irritated Ralf that he would not say his name. <<Come. Join us. We need another pair of clapping hands.>>

<<What are you doing?>> asked Ralf sulkily, though he knew that he would stay.

<<Clapping game>> said Florian with a nod. Ralf just looked at him blankly. <<Are you familiar with the work of Steve Reich?>>

Ralf was not, but he did not want to display his ignorance by confessing to it, so he merely shrugged.

<<American composer. Very new, very exciting>> explained Florian, as if he had seen the panic in Ralf's eyes. <<My father saw his debut in New York City a few years ago. He was most impressed. So we have a game, based on the games this composer plays with his music. You play like...>> He turned to Clarinet, and clapped out a rhythm. <<And you play like...>> He demonstrated another two rhythms to Piano and Violin. <<And then you and I...>> He turned and smiled at Ralf, and Ralf felt his heat pounding in his throat, in time with the beat he was demonstrating. <<But the girls stay at the same speed, or at least try to, and we keep speeding up. If we do it right - like Reich's piano players - we will go in and and out of phase with each other, and it will sound very interesting, yes?>>

<<OK, I will try>> said Ralf nervously.

<<Just watch me>> instructed Florian, his face lighting up in that magnificent grin as he raised the pennywhistle to his lips. <<One - two - three - four - Clap!>>

At least Ralf had a justification for staring now, watching, entranced, by the way Florian's cheekbones appeared and disappeared as he sucked breath in and out, blowing it into the little flute. His long, narrow nostrils flared rhythmically, and his lips pursed over the mouthpiece of the whistle, but he was not playing a tune, just sucking in and out to produce a sharp rhythm with a single note. Without his fingers moving, Ralf was forced to watch the lips, as he tried to clap along in time.

At first, it was easy, as though they were all clapping different rhythms, they were all clapping to the same beat, the different motifs dancing in and out of one another. But then Florian nodded, his eyebrows raising for punctuation as he started gently to speed up. Ralf concentrated, and the rest of the world seemed to drop away. The birdsong tuned out, the voices of chattering students on the lawn dropping away, and finally, he could no longer hear the three women as anything but noise, as he was concentrating so hard on Florian's lips. In, out, in, out, went his breaths. Up, down, up, down, went the gaping dark holes of his nostrils. His cheeks inflated and deflated, and Ralf could see the dark speckles where his beard was coming in, as clearly Florian was already shaving. Those silvery blue eyes seemed to be boring a hole straight into his, but Ralf hung on, concentrating, clapping his hands so fast now that he could feel the skin of his palms growing raw. Faster and faster they flew, and Ralf felt his heart pounding his chest, knowing that no matter how fast Florian went, he would always try to keep up.

But Florian stumbled first. He was playing so fast, he forgot to breathe, and let out a huge gasp at the end of a phrase. Ralf was late picking it up to carry on, and the rhythm fell apart, as Florian fell back, laughing and breathing heavily, the great barrel of his chest heaving up and down as he tried to catch his breath.

The whole group fell apart, laughing and giggling as the rhythm collapsed, but rather than disappointed, Ralf actually felt pleased, proud to have been a part of something so obviously intensely enjoyable to the whole group. Even Piano turned towards him, smiling in a way that lifted her rather plain features. <<You're very good>> she said, and Ralf felt himself flush at the tiny compliment, looking down at his legs.

<<it's Florian>> he said modestly, and Florian, still breathlessly unable to speak, reached over and nudged his knee with one foot.

<<You two should play together>> Piano said, looking over and catching Clarinet's eye. <<You have such a natural affinity for one another... Listen, I tell you what. We should swap groups for the workshop. You should come and play with Florian, and I'll take your place with Clara and Pieter.>>

Clarinet looked ever so slightly outraged at the suggestion, but Ralf leapt at the chance, seizing it with both hands. <<I would love to. Yes, let's swap. Don't you think, Florian?>>

Florian laughed and picked up the pennywhistle from where he had dropped it, piping a long rising burble of assent.

<<Stop it, we know you can talk now>> said Clarinet, with an air of disapproval, but that only generated a wah-wah sad trombone of refusal.

Ralf grinned and allowed himself a tiny lapse of self control, flopping back on the grass next to his new friend, putting his arms behind his head and staring up at the night sky. The stars, away from the light pollution of Düsseldorf and Köln, seemed very bright against the inky black velvet of the sky, but even they were not as bright as Florian's eyes. <<Then it is decided. Florian and I will be a team.>>


	6. Architecture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Florian and Ralf have an almost inexplicable falling out, Ralf finds himself confronting the depth of his feelings for his friend, due to the dejection that losing him inspires in him.
> 
> Content warning for some discussion of body image issues / internalised fatphobia

A friend. And not just a friend, but a _best friend_. Ralf had never had a best friend before. He had been tolerated, at best, in high school, allowed to sit in the lunchroom with the other nerds so awkward that even his company was preferable to total ostracism. But he had never been actively sought out, the way that Florian had started to seek him out: eating lunch with him out of choice, not desperation; sitting in front of him at class, casting those furtive looks back over his shoulder; and oh, those glorious workshops in the thinly insulated rehearsal rooms.

Playing with Florian - with the double bassist trying lamely to keep up - was the exact opposite of playing with Clara and Pieter. Not that it was easy, but that it was challenging and difficult in intriguing ways that stretched his capabilities and exercised his creativity and pushed him in all of the ways that playing with other people had merely constrained and annoyed him. It wasn't at all like the other jam sessions Ralf typically attended, where he and the other musicians would jostle, full of ego, for pole position. Florian just took off at speed like a bird launching itself into the air, and for the first time in his life, Ralf actually found himself almost struggling to keep up. Playing with Florian was a constant, delightful balancing act, of push and pull. He was the most difficult yet stimulating musician he had ever met - unpredictable, mercurial, impossible to anticipate - and yet he was that elusive and intangible thing. Original. Normally when Ralf played with other musicians, it was very stylised and formulaic, they stuck to the predictable standards, and it was easy for Ralf to show off his skill, take elaborate solos, rub his technique and his talent in his collaborators' faces. But playing with Florian, it was like... well, it was like _flying_. They took off together, and he never knew where they would land.

For in improvisation, Florian's flute-playing was the exact opposite of the mimicry that he engaged in with his pennywhistle. Ralf had never known anyone with such a distinctive style, who imposed his own personality so indelibly upon his playing, no matter what they played. The tight constraints of the Raga's restrictions only seemed to spur Florian on, to find new and distinctive ways of asserting himself through his instrument. Ralf rose to the challenge, playing off him as much as he played with him, trying to keep on his toes, but after a couple of days, the double bassist just gave up and skulked off to join Petra and Clara's group.

To be fair, Ralf didn't mind much. The bassist was only holding them back, and honestly, he had already become accustomed to keeping the tempo with his left hand. And without the third wheel, he found that Florian was much more able to open up. Brief conversations between songs and after rehearsals soon became long ones. And Ralf found himself shocked that he had ever thought of his new companion as being silent or uncommunicative. Florian enjoyed talking, and he was often a witty and engaging conversationalist, so long as you knew what topics to draw him on.

They talked about music, at first, as that was the ground they had most in common, though their tastes seemed to be at right angles to one another. Florian knew almost nothing of pop music! His said his parents listened mostly to weird, arty stuff, Stockhausen and Shostakovich and Terry Riley, things that Ralf knew only by name and by reputation, so Ralf devoured it all with fervent curiosity. Florian, however, had never heard the Doors or the Stooges, and the Velvet Underground he knew only through their connection to Andy Warhol. Ralf took great pride in corrupting him.

They didn't talk about their families. That, to Ralf, was a blessed relief. Florian insisted <<Only boring people talk about people. The middling sort of people talk about things. But the really high-class, intelligent people, they talk about _ideas_. >>

Ralf was flummoxed a little by this, but grasped it somehow intuitively to be true. That was what had bored him about girls at school, with their incessant talk of celebrities and characters from television serials. Florian preferred to talk about Space, and about planets and solar systems, discussing urgently whether man would ever walk upon the moon. Or Super-Computers and how they would revolutionise the world. Or else he would get a faraway look in his eye while they were lying outside on the lawn, staring off into the trees, until he came out with something utterly mind-blowing, like <<Have you ever thought about photosynthesis? No, really, have you? Like... plants _eat_ sunshine. Pure energy. Have you ever realised how astonishing that is? >>

And Ralf rolled over onto his side to look, not at the trees, but at his new friend, with complete astonishment, and something approaching pride. <<Yes>> he agreed fervently, watching the dappled sunlight play across Florian's face. <<Sunlight, water, carbon dioxide. It's amazing that they do all that, with just chlorophyl.>>

They talked only glancingly of girls. That, too, was a relief to Ralf, who hated the competitive aspect of male sexual boasting. Florian just didn't seem to notice girls. Well, not that he didn't seem to notice them - he got along perfectly well with Clarinet and Piano (sorry, Clara and Petra) - but more that he didn't seem to to notice that they were _women_. He treated them the same way he treated everyone at the summer school who wasn't Ralf; with polite but studied indifference.

Like most young people of their generation, they talked fervently about politics. But again, Florian was not interested in boasting or showboating or trying to change people's minds. He was interested in what _worked_. And he listened, not with politeness, but with what appeared to be genuine interest to Ralf's ideas about  Anarchism, and how it would and wouldn't function in a truly free society.

But what he didn't like to talk about, was Architecture. That, Ralf found out the hard way, the afternoon he tried to raise the idea of buildings as Machines For Living In versus the idea of buildings as Impressive Spaces To Inhabit, asking him a long and complicated question about trends in Düsseldorf's latest buildings. Florian had turned towards him with a deeply wounded look in those ice-blue eyes, frowned at him fiercely, then without a word, had got up and walked away. Ralf had been too surprised to respond at first, then felt distinctly hurt. Florian was odd, yes, and more than a bit flighty, but this had upset him more than he had expected. Why had no one seen fit to warn him that having a best friend would also involve feeling this bottom-dropping-out-of-his-stomach fear over a minor tiff?

Fear? Fear of what? Ralf pulled himself to his feet with a queasy sort of discomfort. Well, fear that he would somehow fuck up a friendship he was starting to count on, yet again. Through saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, just, generally, being just the wrong human being. That was the problem with getting close to people; it meant allowing them the capability to hurt you by their rejection Looking about him, he glared at the other kids scattered in loose groups across the lawn, still digesting their lunches as they chatted with their friends. It just wasn't fair. Why was it so easy for them, and so difficult for him? His parents said that he was just too clever for his own good; he intimidated other youths. His sister - his perfect, popular sister - a little disparagingly, had informed him that it was nothing of the sort, that his aloofness and emotional distance came across as arrogance. People didn't think of him as shy and clever; they thought of him as stuck-up.

Did Florian now think he was arrogant? Was that a weird question to have even asked, to have just blurted out competing theories of Modern Architecture, and expected him to have an opinion? But Florian was the one person who had been perfectly fine with his strange, open-ended questions - about art, about philosophy, about politics - and seemingly felt comfortable enough to launch his own, about science, about ethics, about sociological anthropology. Conversations with Florian were never about just one thing, because Florian's quicksilver mind seemed to race from one intellectual thread to another, with the mental agility of a hummingbird. But was Architecture the one passion of Ralf's that he was not prepared to share? But why? It must have been something he said, though as per usual, he was at an utter loss to understand or recognise _what_.

Feeling discouraged, Ralf told one of the staff that he had a bit of a stomach ache and headed back to his dormitory to ponder his own social incompetence. Walking into his room, he shut the door behind him, locked it, and then leant back against it. What was this feeling, that made him so elated and energetic when Florian was about, but cast him down into such despair at the thought they had had a falling out? He felt thoroughly confused by the whole thing.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror over his desk, Ralf adjusted his glasses, tried to stand up straight and sucked in his gut. Oh, it didn't matter anyway, his hair was all wrong and his clothes were a mess. He walked over to the mirror and pouted at himself, then ventured a smile, trying to work out how to make his boyish features look less aloof or arrogant, or whatever it was that was wrong with him. He looked at his T-shirt, but that, too, offended him, a grubby grey that had once been white, so he grabbed at its hem and pulled it up over his head before stuffing it into the suitcase that served as the repository for his dirty clothes.

Damn, his chest was so flabby and so pale it really was disgusting, he thought to himself, then reflexively chided himself for cursing. But it remained a boy's chest, not a man's; pale, hairless, with the ribs showing near the top where there should be firm muscles, and that awful curl of podgy white fat around his belly. His arms, though - he flexed slightly and caught the shadow of thin, wiry muscles running up his forearms - those were OK, honed from the summer of carting his Farfisa about. 

But then he pushed his jeans off his hips and almost immediately wished that he hadn't. His legs were absolutely appalling, not just bone white, but too thin in the shins and far too flabby in the thighs and what was more, his bum stuck out when he was carrying extra weight, like someone had shoved a pillow down his underpants. Not flattering, Hütter, he told himself, not flattering at all, and resolved to give all of his cheesecake to Florian for the rest of the summer. Oh god, that was if Florian was even speaking to him, which at that moment, it appeared he wasn't. So at that moment, Ralf just felt overwhelmed by a sudden and sweeping tide of self loathing, hating his body, hating his social incompetence, hating basically everything about being a short, ugly, fat, weird, too-smart German kid stuck in a cultural backwater during the exciting and dynamic Summer of '68.

Turning away from the mirror in disgust, Ralf had been about to head for his bed for the one thing that never failed to cheer him up - a quick and dirty wank to photos of the attractive television actress, or failing that, to photos of Jim Morrison in his skintight leather trousers. But he stopped in his tracks, all the hair prickling on the back of his neck with that distinct feeling that he was being watched, as he saw, yet again, a face hanging down in the top half of his window.


	7. Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf is embarrassed, as he discovers the source of the conflict with his new friend.

Ralf shrieked aloud, and was looking about for something to cover his nakedness, when the upside-down face in the window smiled like a crocodile and tapped on the glass. It was Florian, and he was gesturing for Ralf to open the window.

Without even thinking about it, Ralf walked over to the window, waited for the head to be moved out of the way, then unlocked the windows and threw them open, thrusting his own torso out, to catch a glimpse of the boy hanging out of the window upstairs. <<What on earth are you doing?>> he demanded, not sure whether he liked the idea of being spied on by Florian or not.

<<You didn't turn up to the workshop>> said Florian, still hanging upside-down. <<It's no fun without you.>>

Ralf sighed, his confusion deepening, even as his mood leapt with that little jolt he felt every time the odd boy was around. <<Come down>> he sighed, gesturing with his head to the door. <<Let's talk.>>

Although he had expected Florian to come down the stairs and in the front door in the typical way, it turned out that absolutely nothing about his new friend was typical at all. For Florian propelled his entire body out of the window, clinging to the frame like a monkey, swinging once, twice, three times, before generating the momentum to carry himself down and forward into Ralf's room, through the window. As he dropped, he curled up, and he landed in a large ball, rolling forward a couple of paces into Ralf's room, before somersaulting to a stop. Ralf only avoided being knocked over by leaping backwards onto his bed. As he sat, staring, two long, thin legs unfolded from the ball of boy, then two arms, and then Florian was sitting, blinking, in a heap on Ralf's floor.

<<Hallo>> he said, tilting his head to one side like a bird.

<<Hallo>> said Ralf, then cursed his own politeness as he cast about for his clothes. <<You could have given me the time to put some clothes on.>>

<<I don't mind>> shrugged Florian, climbing to his feet and starting to poke around. As Ralf reached for the nearest articles of clothing - unfortunately they were pyjamas, but they would have to do - Florian went about, inspecting Ralf's room with the curiosity of a scientist, sticking his great, long nose into everything - books, records, piles of papers, even the tangle of wires and cables by which Ralf's Farfisa connected to his amplifier.

As Ralf buttoned up his pyjama top, Florian flicked the on switch of the Farfisa, and poked at the keys, but no sound came out. <<You have to turn on the amp - oh, and then wait for the it to warm up a bit. It'll take about five minutes.>>

Florian nodded and complied, then resumed his examination of the room. He grinned and pointed to the caricature of Ralf he had drawn, the first night. But as he came to the other images tacked up on the other side, he froze, peering at them with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

Ralf felt suddenly ashamed and embarrassed. Jim Morrison. Television actresses. It seemed so childish, in the face of Florian's scrutiny.

But to his great surprise, it was the architectural sketch that his finger hovered over, accusingly. <<Why do you have a picture of this on your wall?>> he finally said, very quietly.

<<Because I'm an architecture student, really>> Ralf confessed, feeling his face flushing. So he was to be found out, an impostor, a hobbyist, at this convention of musicians. <<It's one of the best sketches I've ever done.>>

Florian's face clouded over, growing darker as his eyebrows narrowed. After an almost painful silence, he sighed <<I suppose you _know_ who the architect is. >>

Ralf's face went blank as he suddenly panicked. Oh Christ, it was the sort of thing he was always being asked at University and could never recall. He wasn't particularly interested in the humans that designed the things; he just liked beautiful buildings. Hadn't Florian told him it was more important to care about ideas, than people? <<Erm>> he stuttered, feeling very foolish in front or a friend he desperately wanted to impress. <<I could always look it up for you, if you really wanted to know?>> he offered lamely.

<<You don't know the architect?>> said Florian, his face twisting into something completely unreadable. <<Really?>>

<<I'm sorry>> mumbled Ralf, looking down into his lap, playing with his hands dejectedly.

<<It's just a coincidence, you having this on your wall?>>

<<Well, no, it's not a coincidence. I am, as I told you, an architecture student. I got a first for that drawing, so I'm proud of it. But do I know who the architect is... No, I'm sorry, I don't. I'm a bit shit, alright?>> Admitting that he didn't know or couldn't do something was perhaps the most painful exercise Ralf could be forced into. <<I know you hate Architecture, but I'm sorry, that's the subject that I'm training in. I  never had any massive passion for architecture, to be honest. I wanted to be a musician - or a painter - but my father wouldn't stand for it. He wanted me to be a doctor, or a businessman, to work in an office, something respectable, something posh. So... well... Architecture was the compromise, alright? I suppose you're so bohemian you've never had to compromise with your father in your life.>>

Florian burst into laughter, his face going very red as his mouth split open in that crocodile grin from ear to ear. <<Oh, you and I are not to unlike after all, my friend>> he said, a little mysteriously.

<<Ralf>> said Ralf, starting to be a little annoyed by the way his friend always avoided his name. <<My name is Ralf.>>

<<I know>> laughed Florian, with a pretty shrug. <<My father, too, would like me to follow him in his career. But I have had to fight, to study music. So don't think I don't know how you feel.>>

<<And what does your father do?>> asked Ralf. It was a deep, invasive, possibly intimate question, and he knew it; the sort of personal question that reserved Germans went to great lengths to know while avoiding actually asking. But it just felt like there was something very intimate already hanging in there, in the air between them.

For a long moment, Florian just looked at him, smiling, as if considering lying, but then he shrugged, and turned back to the sketch, tapping it lightly with one finger. <<My father is the architect that designed this building.>>

<<Oh my god.>> Sitting up on his bed, Ralf just stared, wishing he could remember the name of the architect, but then he realised that he had never found out the surname of his new friend. <<I had no idea.>>

<<It's actually quite funny if you think about it>> said Florian, reaching into his jacket to extract a small wooden case. <<Do you want to play some music?>>

<<Yes of course>> Ralf felt his pulse quickening as he climbed off the bed and settled down at the Farfisa. He was relieved that the mystery had been solved, and revealed to be a simple misunderstanding, but also a little bit excited. Was there the edge of hope that he might cultivate this friendship, meet the family, develop a personal and perhaps even professional relationship with the famous architect father? Of course there was. But mostly, he was just excited because, he had discovered, over the course of the week, that he _loved_ making music with Florian.

So he sat down at his organ and cracked his knuckles, trying hard not to look too eager as Florian lay down on the bed - it wasn't an imposition; there was nowhere else in the small dormitory room to sit - and started to assemble his flute. Ralf loved to watch him assemble his 'Serious Flutes'. They weren't at all like his everyday little pennywhistle flute; he had a whole selection of large, bright silver, transverse flutes, with all kinds of assembled mechanical bits on them, to enable him to reach the lower holes. This one was larger than a typical flute, and the sound was lower, a deep breathy alto that sounded brilliant against the bright treble of the Farfisa. And when they played, it wasn't like rhythm and solo, or like lead and accompaniment. They took turns, they swapped phrases, they wove in and out of one another's melodies. And sometimes, when the looked into one another's eyes, and hearing the music was like looking into each others' souls, they played as if they were one person.


	8. Inseparable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Florian and Ralf's classmates start to cast aspersions on their newfound intimacy, the pair start to talk, tentatively, about sexuality, and their feelings.
> 
> Content warning: bullying and homophobic language

Ralf and Florian became _inseparable_. It was a new experience for Ralf, and almost completely overwhelming. He had always been so singular, so solitary, and now suddenly he had become a _half_ of something. Although he had always thought that becoming half of a duo would somehow diminish him, constrain him, cut off his options, he found to his surprise that the reverse was true. The whole world seemed to grow and expand, and become twice as large, because he no longer saw things through only his own eyes, but through Florian's as well. When he listened to music, he was constantly imagining how Florian would react to it. When they watched films together down in the school commons room, at every good bit, he would look over at Florian and exchange a tiny smile to say _wow, did you see that_? 

Florian made him laugh - Ralf, who was always supposed at school to be such an overly serious, no-humour stick-in-the-mud - made him shake with laughter at the absurdity and surreality of the mundane world. And through Florian, he discovered that he could even be funny; his odd habits, his overly precise way of examining and pronouncing on the world, they seemed to bring endless playful amusement to Florian. It never felt like Florian was laughing _at_ him, not the way his awful schoolmates had. But through Florian, the earnest and particular young man found a way to laugh at himself. Florian saw things in him that no one else had even taken the time to see. Not just qualities that were funny or amusing, but qualities that were interesting, or admirable, or even worthy of love.

They didn't use that word, not at first. And yet, slowly Ralf came to realise that it was the emotion that they were both dancing around. It seemed to come upon him suddenly, all in a rush, but when he looked back on it, it seemed to have been building slowly the whole time. He had been learning to truly _love_ Florian.

Other people seemed to notice their growing affinity and intimacy before they did. And yet not all of them were kind, or even understanding, about it. Other students started to whisper about them as they walked by. Or worse, they would fall suddenly silent when he and Florian walked into a room, narrowing their eyes as they stared. Florian didn't notice - or if he did, he didn't care - but Ralf did. He was often slow to pick up on those subtle social clues, but he had learned through hard experience to recognise when other people did not like him or want him around.

'Fuck 'em' he thought to himself, and this time, he did not even reprove himself for the cursing. Florian was worth ten of them! He would not trade this challenging, rewarding friendship with the intelligent and creative though highly unconventional young man for the social approval of the entirety of the Rhineland, let alone this conformist gaggle of conventional, herd-like young people!

But when Ralf and Florian did not respond to social pressure, the social pressure ramped up on them. Walking across the lawn in the early evening, on the way to a cheesecake-finding mission, Florian had spotted the girls lounging under a tree, passing a cigarette back and forth between them, and headed over to suggest a round of the Clapping Game.

But as they got closer, they realised the girls were not alone. They were with Leather Trousers and Hendrix Perm - Pieter and Gunther - and the double bass player, Heinrich. Florian greeted them casually, with a whoop from his whistle - which he still carried, though as more of an affectation than need, as he had started to communicate with words, usually through Ralf.

The other youths, though, seemed to be in a strange, fractious mood, and Ralf could smell from the tang of acrid smoke, that they were not smoking cigarettes after all, but marijuana. He had tried pot, of course, because all musicians smoked it. But he had not found it calmed him; he found that it made him think harder, and deeper, about all things. So he tended to be a little on his guard when he was around people who were smoking it. He had the distinct feeling that Pieter and Gunther were laughing at them, though it was Heinrich - the bass player they had so casually ejected - who finally spoke.

<<Oh, look. It's the fags>> he drawled, in that strong Southern accent that stank of beerhalls and lederhosen and conservative repression. Clara and Vida both started giggling intensely, though Petra frowned a little. Ralf felt his face flushing, burning red with anger and with shame.

<<I'm not a fag>> said Ralf very quietly.

<<Bullshit!>> laughed Heinrich, taking the joint from Gunther and inhaling deeply, though he did not offer it on to the newcomers. <<You two are always in and out of each others' rooms, late at night. Don't think we don't know what for...>> He paused for dramatic effect, catching Vida's eye. <<... _bumming_. >>

<<Fuck you>> said Ralf, with what he hoped was admirable coldness, though he could feel his face burning up. <<We are rehearsing improvisations. Something you could stand to do a little more of, if you wish to be a professional musician.>>

<<Professional shirt-lifter, is what you two are>> sneered Heinrich, then passed the joint to Vida, adding an extra << _Bumming_! >> just for effect.

Although Ralf felt his anger being slowly swamped by the dark tide of rising panic, he glanced over to see Florian looking down at their tormentors calmly, but with a poisonous expression. <<Even if we were homosexuals>> he said, in an almost dispassionate voice. <<What business of yours would that be?>>

<<We don't want fags around us, do we>> said Pieter. <<Fucking sodomites, bum-boys, the pair of you.>>

<<You keep saying this like it is an insult>> responded Florian, in a calm, logical voice that sounded like it belonged to a talking clock. <<I am not insulted by the comparison. I know a number of homosexuals, and they are warm, compassionate, highly talented and intelligent people. Quite unlike you, I might add.>>

<<Oh my god, what if he really is gay>> said Clara, sitting up, as if this thought had not previously occurred to her.

Florian merely shrugged. <<This is factually untrue. But if you compare me to some of the most highly original and creative people I know, this, to me, I do not find it insulting; I find it flattering. However, the fact that you do find it an insult, this tells me a great deal about you - that you are narrow-minded, mean-spirited and bigoted. Not the kind of people I wish to associate with, at all. Now good day to you all.>>

With this, he turned on his heel, and walked stiffly away, his head held high and his carriage very erect. Ralf turned to glare one last time at Heinrich, then had to break into a trot to catch up with his friend. As they collected their cheesecake from the cafeteria, he could see that Florian's ears were very red, a sure sign that he was very emotionally wound up.

<<I don't know>> ventured Ralf softly. <<Do you want to eat here, or do you want to go back to my room... or, well... maybe we shouldn't spent so much time locked up in my room together, if people are going to gossip about it.>>

<<I don't care>> spat Florian. <<Maybe we should go back to your room, throw the doors and windows open, and lie down naked upon your bed for all the world to see and scold at!>>

Ralf swallowed nervously, thinking of how awful his flabby chest looked without clothes.

<<I am joking>> said Florian quickly, though his face was still a stormcloud and he did not look like he was at all amused. <<Let's go and sit on your wall, to show that we are not ashamed.>>

Ralf nodded silently, trying to hold his head high as they crossed the lawn together carrying plates of desert. Florian was awfully good at pretending that things did not bother him when they did, but he was hopeless.

As they ate, Ralf tried to think of conversational topics to make it look as if everything were still normal between them, but inside, he was burning with curiosity. Finally, he decided it would just be better to ask. <<You said you knew...>> He swallowed nervously, unsure of the terminology. <<You know gay people. How do you know gay people?>>

Florian shrugged as if this were the most natural question in the world. It was one of the things Ralf loved most about him, that fierce intelligence that still acted as if no question was beneath him. <<My father owns a very large and successful architectural practice. He employs many people - artists, designers, interior decorators. The arts are a field which have long acted as a magnet - or a safe haven - for homosexual people. My father wants only the best; he cares only about talent, not lifestyle. So I have grown up always knowing that some of my father's friends and business associates are, well, homosexual; and was taught never to think of this as bad or even odd.>>

Ralf blinked, hard, trying to imagine this strange, bohemian lifestyle of Florian's parents, surrounded by artists and designers and openly gay people. He wondered if, when his mother threw dinner parties, she invited gay men's boyfriends and lesbians' girlfriends the way that his own mother invited other doctors' wives. Even as he thought about it, he felt his face flushing.

<<So you don't think of... love between two men, as unnatural?>>

Florian grinned widely for the first time since the altercation. <<How can something which occurs so frequently in nature be considered unnatural?>>

<<Does it occur in nature?>> stuttered Ralf.

<<It certainly occurs in human nature. Have you not read Greek Philosophy? The Greeks considered love - and even sexual relations - between men to be perfectly natural and even healthy. It seems that homosexuality has been around in human beings as long as civilisation has. And some of my gay friends think these things are not unrelated.>> A flash of that crocodile grin of this.

Ralf felt his head spinning, and wished that they were indoors, somewhere private, though he understood why they were not. It was growing dark, so that he could no longer see anything of the group of young people gathered to smoke under the trees except the glowing tips of the cigarettes or joints that they were passing around, but he could still hear the soft burble of their loud, uncouth laughter. Still, he dropped his voice almost to a whisper. <<Have you... ever... _you know_. >> His voice faded away, as if he could not dare to voice it.

Florian turned towards him. Even in the half-dark, he could still see the glittering of his eyes and his sharp teeth. <<With a man? No.>>

<<What about with a girl?>> Ralf could barely believe he had the audacity to ask.

<<Yes, I had a girlfriend, at Gymnasium. We commenced sexual relations after a very drunken bonfire party in the forest.>> Florian said this completely matter of factly, as if describing a doctor's appointment.

<<Did you love her?>> asked Ralf.

At that, Florian seemed to pause, his face furrowing. <<I was very fond of her, yes. I enjoyed her company. But love...>> His voice grew very soft, almost inaudible. <<I don't know if I am _wired_ that way. >>

<<What do you mean?>> Ralf felt like his whole skin was alive as he asked, especially the skin where his legs were very tightly crossed.

Florian seemed to half shrug and half crumple as his face moved forward into the moonlight, suddenly uncharacteristically vulnerable and open. <<Ralf, I am sure that you have noticed by now that I am not exactly _like_ other men. >>

<<Yes>> said Ralf, then added, almost inaudible quietly <<It is precisely what I _like_ about you. >>

<<I grew up reading books and watching films that depicted sex as the be-all and end-all of human experience, the height of intimacy and excitement, the single most all-consuming interest and momentous event of a man's life. But to be honest, when it finally happened, I didn't actually find sex that interesting>> confessed Florian.

<<Oh>> said Ralf. To be honest, sex was the single most interesting thing that Ralf had ever found. If by interesting, one meant totally _absorbing_. He didn't really understand all the fuss about intimacy and love, because sex, for him, had never been an intimate or loving event. But what it was, was the one time in his life, that all that incessant internal backchat and chatter that filled his brain every waking moment of his life, just shut up and let him be. Sex was the one time that he was free of thinking, free of his internal narration, free of doubt and worry and anxiety, and he could actually just _be_ , in the moment.

<<Don't get me wrong. It wasn't the girl - I liked her a lot - and she told me that she found it a wonderful and intimate thing to be doing, not least because she seemed to want to be doing it more and more with me. But it was me. I found it a disappointment. Because it was nice, but it was not _the_ most intimate, the most stimulating and moving and exciting thing that I could do with another human being. >>

<<But what is?>> asked Ralf, though he found he was afraid of the answer.

Florian's silvery irises looked almost white in the moonlight as he turned to Ralf with a haunted look. <<Improvising and composing music with someone.>>

Ralf felt a tiny surge of adrenaline, as his heart seemed to pound _yes, yes, yes, yes, yes_ , with every beat. For a long time, there was silence between them, as they stared at one another, their eyes so full of emotions that were more than words could possibly express. And after an almost impossibly long wait, Ralf realised that it was not just sex that shut up that useless eternal chatter of his own thoughts. His voice seemed thick and clumsy, but he knew he had to voice this. <<When I make music with you, and we are really playing together, those passages where it feels like we think with the same head, and play with the same voice, it feels like we are _flying_. >>

Florian grinned that uplifting, heart-stopping grin of his, with a short, sharp nod of his head. <<Yes. It does. I feel the same.>>

Feeling so happy he didn't quite know what to do, Ralf wanted to leap to his feet, to shout aloud into the air, to scream and dance and whoop for joy. But just at that moment, the group of hippies stumbled across the lawn in a rag-tag clutch of smelly, stoned bodies. As Gunther drew near to them, he put one arm around Vida and gestured with his chin towards the wall. <<Fags>> he repeated.

<<Fine; we're fags>> said Ralf, then threw his head back and started to laugh. Nothing could spoil this moment. His heart was soaring and his mood was so high that he wanted to throw his arms around Florian's neck, and plant a great, big, wet kiss on that crocodile mouth, just for show, just to really rub it in to those stupid, stinking hippies that they did not care about their foolishness. Whatever there was, between he and Florian, it was beyond their churlish laughter. Florian made him feel invincible.


	9. I'll Be Your Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Florian have fallen in love. But what does that mean?

The pair of them cut class, on a sleepy, hazy August afternoon when the air hung so hot and lethargic in the classrooms that Florian had insisted that they walk down to the river, where some cool breezes might be found. Ralf had never cut class in his life. The thrill of walking out of the school illicitly, when he was meant to be somewhere else - when his father had paid a lot of money for him to be somewhere else - had an almost erotic frisson.

Florian had packed up some food - cheese, nuts, granola bars, two bottles of coke - in a canvas bag and hoisted it over one shoulder, pushing the case for his transverse flute in on top through the gap. It was so hot that he had actually omitted his tie, and was striding down the lawn with his button-down shirt open to mid-chest. Florian, Ralf noticed jealously, actually tanned in the sun. (Ralf only ever burned bright red in the sun, before coming out in a crop of unsightly freckles, so he avoided the sun the best he could.) They plunged into the cool of the woods, which, true to Florian's promise, was a few degrees cooler than the open ground, then walked down a steep slope, dodging under some barbed wire, climbing over a stone fence, before walking out into a narrow clearing by the river.

It was like something out of a fairy tale, remote, lush with plantlife, strung about with little waving wildflowers that twinkled in the sun like stars, and cooled by a movement of the air that the fast, pebbly stream seemed to tug down from the mountains with it. And at the bottom of the clearing, a pair of large boulders had constricted the stream to form a deep, clear pool, which seemed to shimmer and sparkle invitingly in the bright sunlight.

Florian lay down on a wide, flat rock, and unbuttoned his shirt all the way, basking like a lizard in the sun. Ralf sat a few feet away, on the grass, under the shade of an overhanging willow, trying very hard to stare at the glittering sunlight on the river, rather than at his friend's bare chest. Insects buzzed in the distance, but the midges seemed to leave them alone. The air under the old willow was heavy and still, and Ralf felt a deep sense of drowsy peace as he looked through the curtain of fronds at his friend, his chest, wide, bony, covered in patches of fuzz like an animal's pelt. He hadn't had a drop of alcohol, but the heat made him feel oddly drunk, like the normal rules of school life had been relaxed for the day.

<<What on earth are we going to do when this class is over?>> asked Ralf, feeling like he wanted to take the moment, press it in a book, and preserve it forever.

But Florian smiled. <<You will just have to come and play with us, in my house. It's near the Theodor-Heuyss Bridge. Very easy to reach from Krefeld.>>

Ralf beamed with happiness at the invitation, pleased that Florian seemed as keen as he was to extend their acquaintance beyond their brief course. <<Us? Who is us?>>

<<Oh, I have a band>> shrugged Florian. <<An experimental free jazz collective.>>

<<Does it have a name?>>

"Piss off" said Florian, in English.

Ralf pulled back slightly, wondering if this was Florian's mercurial sense of humour before deciding no, he had clearly meant it. <<There's no reason to be rude; I was only asking.>>

Florian burst out laughing. <<No, this is the name of the band. _PISSOFF_. It was our bassist's idea - Eberhard is very into confrontational art, the Living Theatre and all that. >>

<<The Living Theatre? What, like Jim Morrison has been getting into?>> Ralf felt his emotions swinging between that old streak of jealousy, the fear that Florian had other, more intimate friends, and curiosity, the desire to meet these exciting experimental, jazz-playing friends who were into confrontational art-theatre.

<<Yes, the very same. He's an interesting character, Eberhard. I think you will like him.>> 

As Florian extracted the case from his canvas bag, and started to assemble his transverse flute, Ralf felt a sudden pang, wishing that he had something small and portable enough to bring with him. Instead he plucked a few flowers with large, splayed compound heads like galaxies of little greenish white stars - oh, how he wished he knew something about wildflowers - and sniffed at them, inhaling the damp, grassy scent of nature. Florian raised the large flute to his lips and started to blow into it, long, low notes that echoed a sound that Ralf could not quite identify. As he looked about, confused, Florian giggled.

<<Do you know what that sound is?>>

<<No>> confessed Ralf. Florian was the one person he was learning to trust with his own embarrassing ignorance.

<<About half a mile down the valley, there is a bridge over the river gorge. That buzz is the hum of motor traffic, echoing and bouncing down the valley with a natural reverb. Listen carefully. Neeeeoooooowwww... A car going by half a mile away, it sounds like an exotic insect.>>

<<It's beautiful>> confessed Ralf. <<You know, I was always taught that engine noise was ugly, and should be contained. But, as a low, droning buzz, it's remarkably pretty.>>

<<Everything can be pretty, in the right setting>> said Florian and raised his flute to his lips again, piping out a long, low melody for the traffic.

Ralf looked down at his friend, his craggy, severe face looking completely natural against the craggy rocks and boulders of the stream bed, as if he had just grown there, some mountain sprite, some spirit of rural Germany made of stone and mountain streams and wildflowers. He felt his pulse quicken in his chest. A strange sort of aching feeling was spreading right across the heart of him that he did not entirely understand. It was an ache that was like the opposite of homesickness; the sense that he had been wandering, lost and alone for a very long time, and had finally found the place where he belonged.

Feeling a bit foolish, he looked down into his lap, and saw the wildflowers still clasped in his other hand. With a mischievous smile, he raised them, and in an impulsive moment (Ralf had never been impulsive in his life) started to drag them gently across Florian's stomach, leaving a small trail of pollen against his curly belly hair.

Florian giggled slightly, as Ralf let the flowers trace a figure-8 across Florian's chest, skirting gently around each nipple, leaving a dusting of petals. <<That tickles>> he gasped, lowering the flute and curling his body away from the flowers, twisting towards Ralf. His thin hip poked sharply through the fabric of his linen trousers.

<<Sorry>> said Ralf with a cautious smile, though really he wasn't sorry at all. He loved that crocodile smile of Florian's, no matter what it took to provoke it. <<it just doesn't seem fair that you have an instrument to play, while I have nothing.>>

Florian lay back against the rock, narrowing his eyes against the sun. <<You always have an instrument with you. Your own body. So sing, clap, whistle, stamp, do whatever you like.>>

Leaning forward, Ralf went back for another round with the handful of flowers. Really, he hated having a body so much that it should have irritated him to have Florian remind him of the fact, but somehow he seemed not to mind. His body, as well as his mind, felt more alive when Florian was close by. <<I'm a terrible singer>> he confessed.

<<No you're not>> said Florian almost immediately, in a very matter of fact tone.

<<How would you know?>>

Florian smiled slyly. <<My room is exactly above yours. I hear you singing in the shower, every morning when I am shaving.>>

Ralf's face burned with shame, as he wondered what else Florian had heard him doing in the shower.

<<I like it a lot>> Florian added quickly. <<There's one song that you always sing, that I am particularly fond of. How does it go? Something like...>> Raising his flute to his lips, he started to play a twisting, Florian-esque version of _I'll Be Your Mirror_ by the Velvets.

Ralf couldn't help himself, he started to sing along, almost by instinct, correcting Florian where he had got the melody slightly mistaken. "I'll be your mirror, reflect what you are, in case you don't know. I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset, the light on your door, to show that you're home." The strange English words seemed to take on an entirely new meaning, as he dropped his voice down for the chorus. "When you think the night has seen your mind, that inside you're twisted and unkind, let me stand to show that you are blind. Please put down your hands? Cause I see you."

There was a funny sort of a feeling in his chest, so intense that he had to drop his gaze. All his life, he had wanted someone to sing a song like that for him, to tell him that deep down he was actually alright, that really despite his shyness and his awkwardness, he, too, was loveable. And yet, here he was, singing it for this odd, beautiful, birdsong boy, finding that for the first time in his life, he meant it completely sincerely. He wanted not to have a mirror, but to _be_ a mirror, to hold up a reflection to Florian to show him how amazing and beautiful and _life-changing_ he was. He didn't quite know whether to laugh, to cry, to stand up and scream, but instead he retreated into his pedantic music-teacher head.

<<On the record, there is an instrumental bit that goes: dur duh-duh durr durr, dur duh-duh durr durr twice, then it goes back to the verse>> directed Ralf, hoping that his face wasn't flushing.

<<I know>> replied Florian. <<You often sing that bit, too.>> He duplicated it perfectly, took a half-beat pause, then returned to the verse. Ralf kept his eyes lowered, his eyelashes sweeping his high cheekbones as he sung the next verse.

"I find it hard, to believe you don't know, the beauty you are. But if you don't, let me be your eyes, a hand to your darkness, so you won't be afraid. When you think the night has seen your mind, that inside you're twisted and unkind, let me stand to show that you are blind..." His voice gave out, and he could sing no further, as Florian improvised a little coda, feeling like he was going to cry at any moment, and yet like he could spread his arms and fly like a bird down the valley towards the motor traffic bridge.

At last, Florian put down the flute, and turned towards him again. <<It is a very beautiful song. Very moving.>> He lowered his voice, and smiled. <<And you sing it perfectly well. You have a good voice.>>

<<It is beautiful>> said Ralf hesitantly, not entirely trusting his voice. <<I have always wondered what it would be like, to be known that completely, to have a song like that sung to you. But now I'm older, I realise...>> His voice threatened to give out, but he pushed it to continue, even as it faded away to almost inaudible softness. <<That the really beautiful thing, is to be able to sing that song to someone else and mean every word.>>

Even as he looked down at his hands, at his long, thin, pianist's fingers, he could feel the weight of Florian's gaze upon him. He wished that Florian would start to play again, but the lad remained silent. Finally, he risked a glance, and looked up to see that Florian was lying on his side again, his head raised, resting gently on his hand, splaying his unruly hair every which way. And Florian was looking at him so intently that Ralf felt as if those silver-blue eyes could surely see straight through him down to his very soul. Except Florian, unlike anyone else, actually looked into his soul, and did not look away, still smiling that faint smile of gentle interest.

<<I mean it>> Ralf almost whispered, looking up and meeting that gaze shyly.

Florian's gaze seemed to soften slightly. There was something just so welcoming, so reassuring about his smile, though his crocodile teeth were still hidden.

<<I've never met anyone quite like you>> confessed Ralf, feeling himself all quivering and open, about to start leaking emotions like flowers spraying their pollen everywhere. <<I... I...>>

<<You don't have to say it>> said Florian gently. <<I know.>>

Ralf felt himself all churning up inside, like the muddy bottom of a stream when a large fish swam across it. Had he just been rejected, when he wasn't even sure what he was asking for? <<I'm sorry>> he said, almost by reflex.

<<Don't be>> insisted Florian, as his lips burst open in that wonderful, warming, accepting smile that made Ralf feel like the entire world was as beautiful and peaceful and perfect as that steep wooded valley. <<Me too>> he said, so softly that Ralf almost missed it the first time, then repeated himself a bit louder. <<I feel the same about you, too.>>

Ralf felt like his chest was going to explode, as Florian reached out his free hand and gently parted the fronds of willow that divided them. The hand touched the side of his face, the fingers decidedly gentle despite their obvious strength, and Ralf felt like the whole world was alight, bending down slightly to rub his downy cheek into the other man's caress.

<<You are so soft>> observed Florian, almost as dispassionately as if he was studying a scientific experiment. <<And so pretty, like a girl.>> A kink to his eyebrows that rendered the smile bittersweet. <<I sometimes wish I was pretty.>>

Ralf almost laughed aloud. No one on earth had ever told him that he was _pretty_. It was such an odd compliment to choose, yet he was certain that it was intended as a compliment. But instead he just smiled shyly, letting his eyelashes flutter against his cheek.  <<You are so interesting. I wish I was interesting.>>

Florian did laugh, a soft guttural chuckle. <<Ralf, you are so normal you are actually weird. I find that highly interesting.>>

It was the first time he had ever said his name aloud, and Ralf felt himself flushing with the sudden intimacy of it, the softly voiced _Hrahlf_ sounding so beautiful he wanted to cry. But instead, he moved his face about two centimetres to the right and pressed a tiny but almost-deniable kiss into the palm of Florian's palm. He was happier than he had ever been, but he had no idea what to do with this happiness. If he had been with a girl, he would have known, that now was the time to take her hand and hold it, then lean in for a kiss.

But this? This was impossible. Florian withdrew the hand, and held it, curled tightly, against his own chest, just grinning up at him. What was this? Was it love? It felt like love. But love was impossible. Florian was a man. A hard, angular, hairy man. What was he to do with a man? And yet, his heart went on pounding, insisting, yes, this is love. Love unlike anything he had ever known, and yet totally unlike anything he had ever expected. It was a love that made him feel split open, and laid out bare, heart and guts and emotions all over the floor in front of him; yet it was a love that made him feel invincible.

<<Aren't you going to try to have sex with me?>> said Ralf stupidly, not sure if he wanted to or not, if this pounding, throbbing kind of love was the kind of love that demanded that or not. In books and films, people always knew the perfect thing to say at this moment, but he just didn't, unsure how to ask or not ask, let alone what he was asking for. <<Because, wait, you don't like sex, do you.>>

<<Do you need me to copulate with you, to prove that I love you?>> asked Florian, his bright eyes clouded with indecision. So Florian could feel confused and uncertain and afraid, too? Ralf wanted to fold him in his arms. And then he noticed the word that he had used, feeling his whole face flush as he looked down, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks. _Love_.

<<No, of course not.>> On the outside, he was still sitting, tightly coiled, legs crossed and self contained, on the root of an old willow tree, but on the inside he wanted to lie down and fling out his arms and roll about, screaming _Florian loves me, Florian loves me... and I... I love Florian_. But instead he sighed deeply and looked down at the carpet of green and gold willow leaves fallen on the ground.  <<But what is this? And what do we do about it?>>

Florian lay back on the rock, his arms folded behind his head, grinning up at the sky. Ralf wished he had half his confidence. <<In books, they call this the Romantic-Friendship. It's a friendship that is just like falling in love, but goes deeper than sex, and is truer than romance, because it does not fade. I have known you for two weeks, but I feel like I will know you forever. I know that we are only 21 now, but I can imagine you and I, doddering around together when we are 40, 50, 60... our whole lives.>>

<<Flori...>> said Ralf, risking the diminutive, rolling it over his tongue like a fine wine, loving the way it felt in his mouth. <<Flori, I want that more than anything. With you. But what are people going to say?>>

But Florian just laughed. <<I don't care.>> Sitting up, he stretched, and then shrugged off his shirt. <<Come on. We've got this beautiful pond here; let's go for a swim.>> He kicked off his trousers and his pants, and just dove into the water, a pale, white darting fish in the silver water.

Ralf, a little shyer, turned to one side. For a moment, he felt horribly self conscious about even having a body, let alone having a pale, squishy, flabby little boy's body. But Florian was already hooting and trying to splash him, bobbing about like a wet seal, and Ralf, for the first time, just allowed himself get caught up in the fun, slipping off his clothes and leaping into the pond, a screaming, flying dive bomb that made Florian yelp aloud with mingled delight and surprise.

 

Forever after, when Ralf tried to measure happiness in his life, he always thought of it in comparison to that day. The heat of the sun, the cool of the water, and the sheer physical pleasure of alternately grappling with Florian or lying, starshaped, floating just under the surface, seemed a kind of benchmark of pure pleasure and easy joy. He had never felt as at ease in his own body, in his own skin, as he had, floating in the river. And he had never felt as loved, as perfectly understood, as he had that day, falling in love with Florian.


End file.
